


State of Matter: Liquid

by MistressAdler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Porn Challenge, Bodily Fluids, Come Shot, M/M, Masturbation, Piss Play, Watersports, piss drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 12:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressAdler/pseuds/MistressAdler
Summary: When a solid is heated above its melting point, it becomes liquid.As John and Sherlock are reaching melting point, liquids come into play.Writen for the prompt "Bodily Fluids".





	State of Matter: Liquid

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags! This story involves pissing onto each other as well as drinking urine. If this is not your glass of tea, I strongly advice you not to proceed any further.

„Are you sure about that?“ Sherlock asks, baffled - and obviously more than just a little bit intrigued.

“I believe you heard me perfectly well.” John growls. He thought he would be more embarrassed than he actually is.

“Yes, but I thought I check I got you right.”

“You hate repetition.” John states.

Sherlock gives him a lopsided smile.

“And you hate filth. Yet, you want to watch me wet myself.” Sherlock arches an eyebrow, looking smug.

“I just think the idea incredibly hot.” John confesses. “And wasn’t it you that’d brought this up, initially?”

John's almost... _quite..._ sure it was Sherlock who'd started this.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

They'd've been drinking. Both of them, actually. In the afternoon, they'd wrapped up a particularly nasty case – involving homeless refugee children killed for organ harvesting; John still had those pictures of little bodies wrapped in sheets imprinted on his retina, and doubted he'd ever be able to erase them – and after returning home, John had decided to get hammered. Surprisingly, Sherlock had joined him; a sign that the case had affected him as well, that he wasn't the cold calculating machine as he himself and others liked to describe him.

They'd steadily made their way through two bottles of red wine before John had brought the whisky out. This prompted some kind of game – they both weren't sure anymore how it started, or what the rules said, if there even were any - but it involved telling each other things they'd never told anyone else before. At first, they'd confessed some rather minor secrets – lies they'd told, petty crimes they'd committed, people they'd snogged - and had graduated from there. Now, they'd arrived at their secret sexual fantasies, things they'd always wanted to try but never had dared to act out or even admit to previous partners.

Sherlock had begun. Rather circumspect, as if to test the waters, he'd told John that he found the idea of piss play extremely arousing. As a chemist, he could ensure John that urine usually was mostly sterile, and, especially if the person emanating it had been drinking a lot, almost tasteless.

“How would you know?” John had asked. “Have you tried?”

“Of course I have. Haven't you?” Sherlock had sounded almost incredulous. John had only chuckled.

“Seriously?” He'd asked, shaking his head, smiling. “Your own or someone else's?”

“My own, obviously, as anything else would've required me confessing this desire to someone else, which would've disqualified the admission of it for this game.”

“Ok.” John had held up his hands. “I haven't. Drunk my piss, that is. But I have tasted my come, if that counts?””

“Counts for what?” Sherlock had asked before emptying his glass and quickly refilling it.

“Dunno, really.” John had said, taking the bottle from Sherlock's hands, their fingers brushing.

Sherlock had swirled his tumbler, staring into the amber liquid. “You don't seem shocked, though...”

“About the piss thing? No.” John had actually felt quite inebriated – and that had made him reckless.

He knew that it was kind of abhorrent. And still... just the mental images of Sherlock, clad in his pyjama pants, his crotch darkening; or Sherlock, standing in one of his bespoke suits in the kitchen, his tight trousers dripping with piss; or Sherlock, naked, kneeling on the bathroom floor in a pool of urine... suddenly, this had seemed incredibly enticing to John.

He also somehow knew that this was a once in a lifetime chance. He'd lived with Sherlock for some time now – and never had the man been so open when it came to... physical stuff. Intimate stuff. Sex. Therefore, John had decided to knock back another drink and plough ahead. If it turned out to be disastrous – as his recent love life tended to be – he could blame the booze, and argue that Sherlock had started it.

Sherlock had still been watching him over the rim of his glass. “Your turn.” He'd told John. “What’s your secret fantasy?” Could it be possible that his voice had dropped even lower than his usual deep baritone?

“I'd like to watch you while you do it.” John had told him, surprised how steady his voice had been. “Piss yourself.”

Having arrived at this conclusion, their eyes had locked over their drinks. John's hadn't wavered, even as Sherlock had felt the uncharacteristic need to reassure himself. John suddenly felt quite sure that he could drown into those pale silver eyes if he'd not be careful.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

“So, you want to watch how I piss my pants?” The low rumble shakes John out of his reverie.

_Oh god, yes._

“If it makes you uncomfortable...” John's voice trails off.

“Of course it doesn't. I was the one suggesting it, remember? Do keep up when I discuss my sexual proclivities with you. It's not that I indulge in it that often.”

Trust Sherlock Holmes to be his acerbic self even while proposing some kinky piss play.

John shrugs. “Well, up until now, it's just a fantasy. I don't expect you to actually act upon it.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, leaning forward in his chair.

John's pupils dilate and his mouth goes dry. “You mean, you would...?”

“Yes.” Sherlock rubs one long, white finger over the rim of his tumbler while keeping his eyes fixed on John.

John can't believe he's heard right. Up until a few minutes ago, he'd not even been sure if Sherlock actually had some sort of sex drive. Now, Sherlock is already offering to indulge in one of his most deviant fantasies. It feels like they've just omitted the 'tentatively getting to know each other intimately' part of a blossoming relationship and went from having a drink on their first date to full on carnal indulgence. But as this is Sherlock Holmes – should this really surprise John? Besides, they were already living together, sharing their daily life and routines... John's suddenly quite sure that skipping the usually complicated relationship negotiations is actually a brilliant idea.

He tries to swallow and has to take another sip before being able to ask: “So, how do you want to do it. Here? Or somewhere a little easier to clean up. The bathroom?”

“Kitchen.” Sherlock barks, almost jumping to his feet and swaying slightly as a result of the sudden movement combined with unusual heavy drinking. “Sorry. I'm a bit excited.” He smiles down at John as he steadies himself with one hand on the mantelpiece. This admission makes John relax a little.

So they relocate to their dimly lit kitchen. Sherlock doesn't move with his usual grace and has to grab the doorframe as not to stumble. Yet John feels suddenly way too sober.

“I'm not taking advantage of you, am I?” He asks a bit wearily.

Sherlock smiles wickedly. “Possibly. But who cares?”

John grins. “Fair enough.” He'll battle his guilty conscience tomorrow. Tonight, he wants this fantasy to become real.

“So?” Sherlock waves his hand through the air, gesturing a bit clumsily around himself. “How shall we do this?” A slight lisp has crept into his usually so pronounced speech. It's almost endearing, John thinks.

Sherlock's still wearing his slim tailored trousers and a white bespoke dress shirt – but has at least shed his jacket and kicked off his shoes sometime during the evening.

“Don't you want to change into something... more... you know...?”

Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture. “Dry cleaners.” He answers by way of an explanation. “Unless you want to see me in something else?”

“God, no! This is fine. Really fine!” John assures him. He can already feel his cock strain against the zip of his jeans – just from the thought of what is about to happen.

Sherlock carefully sits down onto one of their kitchen chairs while John keeps standing a few feet away in front of him. It’s rather awkward than erotic. Until Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, visibly relaxing, while the low light plays on his cheekbones. The sharp angles of his face are suddenly transformed into something much more soft and vulnerable; Sherlock looks impossible young and innocent. His lips part slightly as his ethereal eyes snap open again, full of wonder and surprise.

At first, it's almost invisible, a darker stain on already dark fabric. But it spreads. A small moan escapes Sherlock's mouth.

John presses the palm of his left hand against his crotch. This is definitely the hottest thing he's ever seen in his whole life. He might be about to have a coronary – but sod it, if he's to go like this, it's totally worth it.

Now John can hear it. Sherlock's urine starts to drip from his trouser legs onto the linoleum. Small droplets at first, but it evolves into a pale yellow gush the longer Sherlock takes to empty his bladder. Already a pool of liquid is forming on the floor. The seat of the chair must also be drenched by now. And Sherlock is sitting in it with his plush, round arse, his cleft getting wet while his pants are soaked in piss! John starts to rut against his hand, his hips rotating and bucking fervently as he seeks some much needed friction.

It's over far too soon. The rivulets of piss become a dribble. The look on Sherlock's face is something John has never seen before. Total bliss.

“Can you stay like this, please?” John's voice is hoarse as he takes a few steps towards Sherlock, almost closing the gap between them.

Sherlock has trouble focusing, and John's not even sure he's been aware of his presence, but his question seems to bring Sherlock back to the here and now. He gives a curt nod as he looks up at John's face and then down at his groin, where John's nimble fingers are busy unbuttoning his fly.

John has no idea if Sherlock cares for hands-on sex, real physical intimacy – somehow, they'd skipped that part of the conversation entirely – so he doesn't expect any participation. But his balls feel like exploding if he doesn't get off NOW – and as Sherlock is not the squeamish kind, John's rather sure that he won't mind John masturbating in front of him. He might actually enjoy it – even if it is for totally different reasons than John.

But as John's fat, leaking cock springs free from its confinement, Sherlock actually makes a small sound of pleasure. His eyes are fixed on John's fist on his hard shaft, the glans reappearing with every stroke while pre-come drips from the slit. All the while, Sherlock is sitting in his own rapidly cooling piss that seeps through the fine wool of his bespoke clothes and dampens his white skin.

The idea drives John mad. He can't remember the last time he's been so hard. It almost hurts. He can already feel his balls tightening. This won't take long.

“John, please, I'm already so wet...” The deep baritone washes over him like a wave of pure need, making his skin tingle with desire. “Please, come all over me. I want you to...”

That's all encouragement John needs. He has to grab Sherlock's bony shoulder because his vision goes white as he starts to shoot his load all over Sherlock's chest and belly, further soiling his once crisp shirt. It clings to Sherlock's skin even more than usual, now translucent in parts where John's come is seeping through the fabric, melting onto Sherlock's milky skin.

John is still panting hard when he opens his eyes again, staring down into Sherlock's, that right now resemble pools of dark quicksilver. It takes John's dazed brain a moment to realise that Sherlock has opened his trousers as well and is frantically fisting a long, slim cock.

John's brain almost short-circuits. Yet he watches, unable to avert his eyes. Sherlock's glans is red and swollen and his damp clothes make squishy sounds as his hips start to buck up into his hand. John grips his shoulder hard enough to bruise as he presses him down into the puddle of his own piss, and Sherlock obediently sinks onto his knees.

He's kneeling on their kitchen floor, tugging at his cock while his own urine seeps through his trouser legs, all the while looking up at John with wide eyes, unblinking. John would normally be sure that Sherlock is storing all this away in his mind palace for future reference, only, he seems almost gone, reduced to basic human needs, like any other man wanking. The realisation that Sherlock is just like him in this moment, desperately chasing his orgasm while his higher brain functions are shut off, giving way and releasing blood to perform much more carnal acts, makes John brave and bold. He has to watch Sherlock come apart.

“John, please...” Sherlock's voice is wrecked, impossible low. “Could you, please... could you piss on me?”

John suddenly knows that there is nothing he won't do for Sherlock. Shooting that cabbie had just been the beginning.

He takes his now flaccid cock into his free hand and aims for Sherlock's chest. As the first splatters hit him, Sherlock makes an almost animalistic noise, something between a rough growl and a high keen at the back of his throat.

John guides his stream over Sherlock's torso, down between his legs, hitting his cock and the fingers encircling it, until he eventually directs the spray up onto Sherlock’s face. His knees threaten to give out as Sherlock opens his mouth wide and throws back his head; it’s all the invitation John needs. He fills Sherlock's willing mouth with piss and watches enrapt as his long pale throat contracts to swallow.

John is quite surprised how full his bladder must have been, for it seems to take ages before the hot stream stops. Sherlock is dripping by now, fully drenched in his own and John's bodily fluids. He looks gorgeous, debauched, filthy. John's sure that he's never seen anything more sexy in his whole life – and he's had encounters on three continents.

When Sherlock moans again, sounding desperate, John stuffs two of his fingers into his slightly open mouth, and that seems to do it, for Sherlock's eyes flutter shut as he starts to suck. John remembers that he's flooded this hot, wet cavity with his own piss just moments before, but he has no time to dwell on this strangely arousing thought, because a violent orgasm is wrought from Sherlock's wiry body. It's a sight to behold, almost an epiphany. Sherlock is shaking, convulsing – and would have fallen face down onto the floor if John hadn't held him up by the shoulder – while shooting his come as far as their grimy kitchen cupboards.

John quickly removes his fingers, but otherwise, they stay like this for a few moments until Sherlock has his breath back. They are both too weak and tired to tug themselves away. When Sherlock scrambles eventually to his feet, his wet trousers just drop to the floor, soaking in the yellow puddle. He steps out of them rather unceremoniously before looking a little sheepishly at John.

They both can't help it. It starts with a small smirk that develops rather quickly in one of their uncontrollable giggling fits usually reserved for extra-gruesome crime scenes. John has to grab the edge of the counter while Sherlock rests his bare arse – the sod really doesn't wear any pants beneath those bespoke suits – onto their kitchen table.

It takes a while until the laughing subsides. When they've calmed down a little, they risk looking at each other.

“We really need a shower.” Sherlock states, looking down at himself.

“But we should clean this up first.” John suggests. “Just imagine Mrs Hudson walking in here in the morning when bringing up your tea.”

“We could tell he it was an experiment.”

“Believe me, she won't buy that.”

They quickly get a bucket and cloth to wipe up the mess. As per usual, John is doing most of the work, and as a perhaps little spiteful revenge leaves Sherlock's come to dry on the cupboard's door (should the git try to explain _that_ to their landlady!), but in the end, everything is much cleaner than before they embarked on this game. John even gets a nice view of Sherlock's naked, well-muscled arse as he bends over to empty the bucket into the sink.

Afterwards, he even gets more of an eyeful as Sherlock sheds the rest of his dirty attire and stuffs it into a bin bag before strutting gloriously naked over to their bathroom to take a shower.

John can hear the tabs being turned and the water starting to run.

“Don't use up all the hot water!” He shouts. “I need a shower too!”

Sherlock's tousled head appears around the doorframe. “Why don't you join me, then?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Well, why not indeed?


End file.
